


Sky of Ashes

by Orifiel



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adventure, F/M, Fantasy, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-26 22:09:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orifiel/pseuds/Orifiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally used as a political pawn by her ambitious family, an Altmer noblewoman chooses one destiny over another when she learns of the dragon that resides within her blood and soul. As she casts off her elite class mentality through experiences with danger, love, and honor, there are those who would see her perish whether as the Dragonborn or as the new Arch-Mage of the College.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

As she trudged the last few steps of the dirt path, blood-stained sword glinting in hand and muscles still taut from battle, Meleske Direnni was a sight to behold. And not necessarily in a good way. Or even in a visually acceptable way.

The Altmer woman's raven tresses fell in a tangled mess over her shoulders, with the shorter strands sticking out in all directions as if she'd been on the wrong end of a lightning spell. Her clothing, once among the finest embroidered silk garments in the Isle of Balfiera, now barely retained her modesty as it hung in shreds on her slender figure, covering only enough to stave off public ridicule. Slashes and first degree burns marred her fair skin from her face to her bare feet. Her slanted golden eyes squinted against the sun's reflection in the river running parallel to the path. Most of her senses had gone numb during her fight to escape, but her vision had grown more sensitive to the intensity of the light.

She had spotted the town from a ledge some distance back, and even though her opinion of this province was at an all-time low for yanking her headfirst into its lunatic fiascos, she could acknowledge when she needed help. The closer proximity to the water helped to cool her body temperature and soothed the worst of her burns. Two young children that had been playing in the road saw her approaching and quickly ran inside one of the houses. She finally passed beneath the watch bridge that marked the entrance of the town, weary and hoping to find a place to rest.

The first thing that greeted her was an old woman's shrieking. "Dragon! I saw a dragon!"

Meleske tensed as the image of the enormous winged reptile came to mind. Its sudden appearance had been both a miracle and a curse, having narrowly saved her from beheading by the Imperial Legion, but then it had tried to roast her along with every other soul present at that godforsaken human settlement. The nightmare of this dreadful excursion into Nord land would live with her for the rest of her days, all for a political arrangement she had opposed from the beginning.

A young blond man, revealing himself to be the screeching woman's son, sighed in exasperation as he faced her. "Dragons, now, is it? Please, Mother. If you keep on like this everyone in town will think you're crazy."

"No, the old bat has it right," Meleske cut in, far too irritated over her recent traumatic experience to bother with manners. "Your neighbors on the other side of that mountain back there are all likely dead."

In all honesty, sensitivity was not her strong suit, a fact she felt no remorse over when the two Nords turned to her with mixed expressions of shock and disgust.

"Who are you?" the man demanded, not quite keeping his eyes from flickering over her near-naked body.

The temptation to hack his skull in two was almost overwhelming. "Someone who survived that flying demon's annihilation of the town once called Helgen. Now, I am very tired and very angry, so if you could direct me to the nearest inn, I will promptly remove my indecent appearance from your sight." She directed these last words at the old woman, whose condemning gaze could have disintegrated a lesser person on the spot.

"Sven, take this filthy, pointy-eared trollop to Delphine and see if she can do something about her wicked elven impropriety—" The woman would have kept on with her racist remarks had the hem of her skirt not just been set aflame. With an ear-piercing scream, she batted at it furiously.

Although Meleske had been reserving the remainder of her magicka for healing herself in the privacy of a rented room, she decided it would serve a better purpose this way. "Say that again, you abominable hag," she seethed, lowering the palm that had cast the fire spell. "You are what, in your sixth decade of life? I am more than twice your age! If you do not begin respecting your elders, I will be forced to show you your place. Do you understand? Well?"

To her annoyance, the woman was too busy attempting to extinguish herself to answer. Finally, when her efforts failed to make any progress in snuffing out the flames, she turned on her heel and fled through the door of her house. Sven, who just stood there while his mother was burning alive, shook it off with a roll of his eyes.

"So dragons have truly returned? You'd best tell the Jarl of Whiterun. He needs to know about this," he told Meleske.

She scowled so deeply that the cuts on her face stung even more. "Why must I be the one to play messenger to your human rulers? Tell me something useful, such as a location where I might change myself out of this hideous look."

"Just down the road to the right is the Sleeping Giant Inn, where I work as a bard in the evenings," Sven replied. "I would escort you myself, but it's, well, right there and I'm scheduled to visit a beautiful woman named Camilla at this time. Although," he added, now openly leering at her exposed cleavage, "if you'd like to leave your room door unlocked after I finish my shift, it looks like you could use some company throughout the night."

"And it looks like you are begging to join your mother in spontaneous combustion," she returned acidly, outraged at his nerve. "Your further services are unnecessary, fiend. Besides, I don't like men shorter than me. Farewell." With that, she spun on her heel and stomped toward the building displaying the large tavern sign.

While the population here seemed rather small—and more so because she easily towered in height over most citizens of Skyrim—she drew stares from all the residents who were out and about. The blacksmith, who had been hammering away at his anvil, not only ceased his work but also dropped his tool into the smoldering coals when he caught sight of her. A hefty bearded man who had been leaning idly against the post in front of the local trading goods shop almost toppled over when she passed him by. A middle-aged blonde woman with an armful of chopped firewood froze in her tracks, mouth agape, when she was about to cross her path.

 _Imbeciles,_ Meleske thought savagely. _Aren't these snow-loving neanderthals supposed to be accustomed to seeing the outcome of battle?_

It wasn't until she threw open the door to the inn and almost collided with another woman did anyone bother to find words to address her presence.

"What in Oblivion!" exclaimed the individual she had nearly knocked over. This one was an older female boasting a sturdy build, shorter than average, with golden hair tied back in a sensible fashion. Meleske could tell at once that she wasn't a Nord, but a Breton.

"Out of my way, if you please," Meleske said in a tone as close to politeness as was possible for her when communicating with a human.

The Breton's eyes went wide with astonishment, and she didn't move as she took in Meleske's grimy and injured state. "What in the name of Akatosh happened to you? Come in, I'm the innkeeper, Delphine."

"Ah, excellent." Meleske stepped inside at Delphine's beckoning and found herself surrounded by the aroma of smoky firewood and cooking food. The only other occupant in the common area was the bartender, a surly-looking man with a permanently creased brow, which rose in question at her entry. To his credit, he didn't gawk like the other townspeople had.

"Orgnar, go rouse that useless lout Embry from his loitering and have him bring in bucketfuls of water from the river," Delphine ordered the bartender.

Orgnar grunted in compliance and headed for the door without a word. Delphine took Meleske by the arm and steered her to one of the vacant rooms for rent. "I'm not usually in the habit of offering aid to every stranger that shows up at my door looking like death, but I can provide you with a bath and spare clothes," said the innkeeper as she dragged a large shallow basin from beneath the wardrobe. "As for room and food, however, I can't help you unless you have the coin."

"I should have enough for a night's stay," Meleske assured her, referring to the small bag of gold still strapped inside the remnants of her corset. She had filched it from a soldier's corpse during the chaos created by the dragon attack, along with the iron sword she had swung around like a madwoman to defend herself against those trying to prevent her escape. She lowered the bloody sword onto the floor and winced as the muscles in her back protested the movement.

Delphine laid out a simple green and tan dress on the bed and waited with her arms crossed for the bathwater to arrive. Eyeing Meleske with a calculating look, she asked, "So what brings you to Riverwood looking like that?"

"It is a very long and cumbersome tale that I wouldn't dream of boring you with."

"Then skip to the good part."

 _I see. The price for the bath,_ Meleske concluded, _is information._ "Fine. If you must know, that senile old harpy residing at the edge of town isn't suffering the onset of dementia when she prattles on about seeing dragons," she said. "I was at Helgen three or four hours ago when the monster swooped down from the sky and burned the entire place to the ground."

Delphine's face suddenly became an impassive mask, but not before Meleske caught a shadow of cold dread move over her eyes. The action came off as a bit suspicious, but she dismissed it as the standard fear of legends coming to life. Personally, their existence didn't surprise her in the slightest. As an Altmer, she was related to people who had lived for centuries and claimed to have records passed down by their ancestors that documented instances of war with the beasts. And while she was considered at the brink of her adulthood, her knowledge of the difference between extinct and dormant races surpassed that of the most scholarly humans. Dragons had never been proven to have completely died out.

"A dragon, eh? Interesting. But you're not from Helgen, are you?" Delphine inquired, staring hard at her. "What's your name, high elf?"

"My name is Meleske, and no, I am most definitely not from anywhere in this awful, barbaric country," she snarled before launching into a lengthy, bitter tirade. "I was on a journey to Riften with my companions when our carriage was attacked at the southern border by a group of crazed mages. The only ones who survived were myself and one other, but she was mistakenly struck down by some delirious Stormcloak rebel running from the Imperial Legion. The rebels were caught, arrested, and carted off to Helgen to be executed, and I along with them," she finished lividly. "The irony of it all is that the dragon is what spared me from losing my head."

She would never forget the black wings that eclipsed the sun, the piercing amber eyes that struck terror far greater than that caused by the raised axe about to cleave into her neck. And when it opened its mouth… the sound that emerged had shaken her to her very core, rode her blood in such a familiar way that for a moment, she questioned who and what she was. Both her savior and her tormentor, the dragon had changed her fate.

Delphine watched her as she relived the memory. The silence stretched on, and by the time Meleske noticed the other's inquisitive expression, she realized she might have said too much. Choosing to change the subject, she opened her mouth and shifted to the right—a mistake, for the vanity mirror nearby allowed her a generous glimpse of herself. The sight just about stopped her heart.

Jaw dropping to the floor, she propelled herself forward until her lower abdomen hit the edge of the vanity's wood finish, hands pressed flat against the glass as if trying to make certain the reflection was truly hers. No wonder everyone had gaped at her. She was a walking terror, a horrifying slashed-up creature barely recognizable as her elegant and graceful self. In fact, if the Altmeri people had their own version of the draugr, she would be the poster child and point of reference for all artistic depictions. The damage to her beauty was extensive and, if she didn't heal herself soon, permanent.

She sent the innkeeper an imploring gaze. "I would sell my soul right now for a healing or magicka potion, so please tell me you have one or the other in stock."

"I don't, sorry," Delphine replied with utter frankness. "But," she added when Meleske seemed to die a little inside, "I have an Alchemy Lab that you can use to make one once you gather the ingredients."

_Fantastic… I've already used my Highborn ability once today. I'll have to venture out like this just to collect the items to fix it._

Further conversation was interrupted by the sounds of heavy footsteps and sloshing water approaching. The bearded man from earlier appeared in the doorway, carrying a full bucket in each hand. He was followed by another, a curious male Bosmer, who carried two more buckets for her bath. Both men glanced at Meleske as she hurriedly pushed herself from the mirror, hoping they hadn't witnessed her pitiful "oh, woe is me" pose.

"Embry. I see you had to recruit Faendal to help with such a simple task," Delphine remarked with disapproval. "You could have made two trips, you know."

"He's the one who offered to help," Embry retorted. "Wanted to see the tattered up elf everyone was talking about."

"Tattered?" Meleske rumbled in an ominous pitch.

"I was just interested to hear that another elf was in the area," the Bosmer piped up as he set the buckets down next to the basin and brushed his long hair to the side. Turning to give her a smile, he said, "Greetings, friend. It's nice to see the face of an elven cousin here in Skyrim."

She nodded at him shortly. "Although my face is practically disfigured at the moment, likewise. I appreciate you delivering the water."

"What about me?" Embry asked with a frown.

"Oh. I suppose that goes for you, too, peasant."

His cheeks took on an offended flush, but before he could say anything else, Delphine pushed him and Faendal out the door.

"Just take your time. I'll be out here with Orgnar when you're finished," she told Meleske and shut the door with a firm click behind them.

Left to herself at last, the Altmer wasted no time in throwing off her shredded clothes and hopping into the basin. It was a crude way to bathe, as she was used to the luxury of a ceramic tub with flowing spring water, but certainly a more appealing option than splashing around naked in a river. For one thing, she couldn't swim. Then there was the slight issue with getting caught by aggressive foes during her most vulnerable state. And from what she'd seen of Skyrim thus far, there was no shortage of potential enemies—man and beast alike—to a member of the Direnni Clan.

The bath was both refreshing and painful to her wounds. With all the dirt and grime washed away, she could examine herself and assess the damage more clearly. Her arms and legs sustained the majority of the injuries, but her face and torso sported a fair percentage of cuts and burns. To her grief, she discovered that the severity of one particular slash running diagonally down her right cheekbone would most likely result in scarring.

"Bloody Oblivion," she muttered, turning away from the vanity mirror to reach for the dress on the bed.

There was no point in trying to make it to Riften now. Not only would she be several days late, she had lost all her money and documents during the attack on her carriage, and she was no longer presentable enough to fill her role in the arrangement. The thought both distressed and thrilled her. On one hand, she was trapped in this frozen wasteland with no sure way to send word to her family of her situation and had embarrassingly limited experience in fending for herself. Not to mention she had the social skills of a hacksaw. But on the other, this may be her chance to start over, to live her life without having to bend to the will of her clan branch.

She only wished she knew what the right decision was.

A commotion outside stirred her from her mulling and drew her to the window. From where she stood, she could make out a crowd gathered in the road, the angry buzz of voices telling her of a heated argument taking place. She was about to close the shutters and leave the Nords to their own trivial quarreling when she spotted a familiar uniform partly obscured by several bodies. The unmistakable blue sash and quilted armor brought a new boil to her blood as she recognized the Stormcloak garment. Whirling around, she banged open the door to her room—startling Orgnar at the bar—and marched straight out of the inn to join the crowd.

The volume of the spat reached a headache-inducing level as she elbowed her way to the center, ignoring her complaining wounds. When she saw who the Stormcloak was, and who he was arguing with, her temper snapped.

" _YOU!_ " she roared, feeling the rush of her magicka restoring as her Highborn ability did the impossible by activating itself for the second time in one day.

Ralof, the Stormcloak who had killed her handmaid in his rush to lose the soldiers giving chase near the border, abruptly ceased his yelling and spun around to face her. Next to him stood Hadvar, the Imperial soldier who had sentenced her to death at the order of his superior officer, and he shut his mouth as well when his gaze drifted to her. Both men looked worse for wear, similar to the way she had before her bath. The entire crowd fell silent at her daunting presence. A fire spell ignited in both palms and infused her with a menacing aura that sent many people several steps back.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't finish what that dragon started," Meleske thundered, hands itching desperately to blast them.

A light touch at her shoulder held her back. "Wait, friend. They both have family here," said Faendal.

As if that mattered to her. She despised these inferior beings with a passion. Even though in the back of her mind she knew her prejudice was born from her parents' repetitive vocal condescension of the human race, they had done nothing to convince her that they deserved her respect. And after suffering at the actions of these two cretins, they had shown her that they didn't even deserve her mercy.

Yet, as she prepared to take out her frustrations on their insufferable hides, her body froze when the two children she had seen while approaching Riverwood, a boy and a girl, threw themselves in the line of fire to defend the men. They regarded her with expressions full of defiance and challenge, their small arms rising over their heads to present themselves as tiny human shields. She saw the trembling in their fingertips, the fear that gripped them even as they held their ground courageously before the towering Altmer woman. A collective gasp rolled over the townspeople around them, followed by the whimpering of the mothers.

Meleske didn't hear them. She didn't think as she looked the children straight in the eyes and drew back her hands. A woman screamed when the flames in her palms surged upward in a blinding explosion, illuminating the darkening sky with an intensity that rivaled the dragon's own breath. When the radiance subsided, the children remained in their positions, shaken but unharmed, while Meleske lowered her hands and charged her way out of the crowd.

She loathed them all for testing her this way and watching her fail. Through her hatred and fury, something inside had betrayed her. It was a horrible sensation of unwanted compassion, of conscience she had never known before. It influenced her judgment, flowed through her in airy whispers of virtue.

It felt like humanity.


	2. Chapter 2

The break of dawn found Meleske perched on the edge of the bed, using a comb to viciously wage war on the tangles in her damp hair. It had been a restless night, comprised more of tossing and aggravated grumbling than unconsciousness. Her muscles ached despite the number of times she healed herself, rendering her sore and contributing to her foul mood. She suspected the second activation of her Highborn ability as the culprit, although she couldn't be sure. The bags beneath her eyes were heavy with fatigue, but her mind would continue to rob her of rest should she attempt sleep again.

Even as she fumed in the stillness of her room, the events of the previous evening plagued her thoughts. Dodging certain death and surviving a town's total destruction were feats attributed to sheer luck and the temporary favor of the gods. Failing to enact her rightful vengeance on the Stormcloak and the Legionnaire, all because of the damned brats offering themselves as sacrifice, was due to her own shortcomings as a Mer. Some would call it taking the moral path, an adult refusing to strike the most innocent of living beings. But she didn't see it as acting moral. She saw it as weakness.

Her parents had taught her two things: one, Mer were superior to Man. End of story. Two, if Man were to cause any form of harm, offense, or even relative inconvenience to Mer, then Mer should always collect justice, no matter the cost. Admittedly, the standpoint seemed extreme to carry around, but such was the way hers had been shaped. If her parents had seen her, walking away from the crowd without so much as conjuring a temperamental fireworks display, they would have exiled her from the Isle of Balfiera.

The comb was discarded on the bed when she finished taming her shoulder-length tresses. She rose to her feet, feeling every excruciating pull of her stiff body, and dragged herself to the wooden table next to the wardrobe. She was about to collect her belongings and make a stealthy departure from Riverwood when Delphine strode in without knocking.

Pinning her host with a withering glare, Meleske said through clenched teeth, "I realize this is your inn and all, but could you at least give notice before entering?"

"I thought you might attempt to sneak out," Delphine replied, staring pointedly at the coin purse and sword in her hands, "so I came to stop you."

"But I already paid you for this overpriced room," Meleske protested, waving the nearly empty coin purse in accusation as the one remaining gold coin bounced around inside.

The innkeeper fought back a wry grin and tossed over a pair of fur boots that the other caught with difficulty. "I'd imagine your trek to your next destination would be quite painful with bare feet."

Meleske narrowed her eyes in suspicion at the footwear. "I can't afford these."

"That's why I'm asking you to pay with your time and cooperation." Delphine gestured to someone over her shoulder and stepped aside to hold open the door for them.

The items dropped out of Meleske's arms and hit the floor with a loud clatter when Ralof and Hadvar entered with caution. She swung a reproachful look toward Delphine, who ignored her and asked the men to take seats at the chairs on the opposite sides of the room. They had cleaned up and changed out of their respective uniforms, but appeared to have had about as much sleep as she did. The tension in the air was so thick, one could almost choke on it. Meleske felt her body temperature rising again, and she considered this invasion of her space an invitation to take them out. As soon as the fire spell sparked to life in her palms, however, Delphine shut her down with a quick shock of an adept level lightning spell.

"Akatosh's arse!" Meleske swore, running her hands up and down her arms in an effort to erase the lingering shaking of her joints. "All right, I yield! What the devil are you thinking bringing these two miscreants here, anyway?"

The "miscreants" were too busy glowering at each other to offer her hostility any acknowledgement. Both had yet to say a word, but their deep reluctance to spend any amount of time within the other's vicinity was clear as day.

Delphine closed the door and turned to them with a grim expression. "I need all of you to get your stories straight about the dragon's appearance so I know exactly what we're dealing with," she declared. "If it caused as much devastation as Meleske described, we really will need to send word to the Jarl of Whiterun."

That mollified them long enough to shift their attention to her. Meleske trudged to the bed and sat at the base of the headboard, as far away from the two men as possible. Delphine stationed herself in front of the exit and placed her hands on her hips as she waited for the cold silence to break. She looked every bit like a prison warden, blocking their primary way out and able to electrocute them if they tried to climb out the window.

Finally, Meleske grew impatient enough to snap, "Oh, for the love of the Nines, I'll go first then!" and proceeded to rant about how she had ended up on the chopping block, embellishing her version of the tale with blatant insults toward the Stormcloak rebels and the Imperial Legion.

Her story was followed by Ralof's input, and then Hadvar's. All three recounts of the first half of events at Helgen were fairly synchronized, more or less, but once they reached the part about finding a way to escape the smoldering town, Ralof and Hadvar had the audacity to briefly unite and point resentful fingers in Meleske's direction for rejecting each of their offers of help.

"We had reached an intact keep and were trying to lead her to safety," Ralof told Delphine with a deep frown.

"And she didn't even choose to go with one of us, she simply charged through on her own," said Hadvar, clearly affronted.

"Well, obviously I wasn't going to be caught dead with either of you since I hate you both," Meleske snarled.

Delphine's blank face spoke volumes of her interest in the dispute among them. Which was to say, none. But before she could turn the subject back to the dragon, Ralof decided that now was the time to try to counter Meleske's aggression.

"Your hatred is understandable because of what I did to your companion," the Stormcloak began, recalling how she had cursed him three ways to Oblivion with just her mouth after the act, "but you should have allowed me to escort you through the keep. You attacked my comrades inside and left them to die in pools of their own blood."

She drew herself up in her seated position, golden eyes glittering dangerously. "Now listen here, Olaf—"

"Ralof."

"Whatever. That was my favorite and last handmaid whom you absentmindedly impaled with your sword while running from those inept Legionnaires, so your fellow rebels had it coming," she spat. Then, swinging her malevolent gaze to the Imperial soldier, she continued, "And you! I don't even know what your name is—"

"Hadvar."

"—nor do I care, but you've got some nerve breathing the same air as me when you're the one who gave out my death sentence." Had she been any less of a lady, she would have been foaming at the mouth.

Delphine cleared her throat and stepped forward. Meleske looked two seconds away from throwing herself at one of the men to scratch out his eyes, and the last thing she needed was the corpse of either a Stormcloak or an Imperial decorating the floor of her inn. "Enough. I think I understand. Meleske, I don't know if you still plan on going to Riften, but you're going to need a carriage or a horse to get anywhere in Skyrim." She reached behind her and opened the door, indicating they were free to go.

Predictably, the Altmer was the first to shoot to her feet. Delphine continued, "The closest city to here is Whiterun, which will have a carriage for hire. If you visit the jarl and inform him of the dragon situation, I'll provide you with traveling supplies and reimburse you for the cost of this room."

Meleske hesitated, wary. "Why me? Have one of _them_ do it. And what makes you think I want your help?"

"Ralof is going to Windhelm and Hadvar is going to Solitude." Delphine's smirk was positively infuriating. "The way you carry yourself and your mentioning of having a handmaid imply that you're part of Altmeri nobility. Skyrim is a dangerous place, princess. You're going to need all the help you can get."

x-x-x-x-x

By the time Meleske stepped outside into the fresh morning air, with a new traveling pack strapped to her shoulders, she was ready to maim anyone unfortunate enough to cross her path. The townspeople steered clear of her and kept their spiteful glances discreet as she heatedly adjusted her hide armor, finding the itchy material intolerable. Delphine had made good on her word that she'd provide her with supplies, and even "happened to find" some spare healing, magicka, and stamina potions to fill her pack. The armor was an added bonus, although Meleske suspected that Delphine had chosen the most hideous and uncomfortable set on purpose, and she'd drawn the line when Delphine tried to place the matching helmet onto her head.

"If I wanted to look that ridiculous, I would have just worn a bloody bucket!" she had yelled before jumping out of reach and bolting out of the inn.

Now she stood in wait, keeping an eye out in case the unsightly metal headpiece made a reappearance, and wondered who her traveling companion would be. Delphine had told her that someone from town— _"Not Ralof or Hadvar,"_ she had specified when Meleske began to throw a tantrum—would escort her to Whiterun. She speculated as to whether this person would get her lost on purpose, leading her to her death in retribution for her actions the day before.

And when she saw Sven round the corner and come trotting to her with an absurdly big smile on his face, her heart sank. Not because she was worried he would lead her astray—not that the dim-witted fool could pull off such a scheme—but because she would rather just fall dead right there than spend a day's journey with him.

"Ho! High elf maiden!" he greeted as he came to a stop in front of her.

"Please tell me you're not the one who will be taking me to Whiterun." She didn't bother to mask the dismay pouring out in waves from her voice.

"Oh no, not I, but I'm flattered that you would request me for such a task," replied the oblivious bard, who was in immediate danger of expiring at the hands of the enraged Altmer. "I was only hoping if, before you go, you could give this to Camilla Valerius for me." He produced a folded letter from his pocket and handed it to her.

"What is this?" she demanded, holding the paper away from her with her thumb and index finger as if it were diseased.

"That wood elf, Faendal, has been harboring romantic notions for Camilla even though I keep telling him she's already mine," Sven sniffed disdainfully. "I wrote a letter full of venomous nonsense and signed it under his name. If you give it to her, that should put a stop to any communication between them."

Meleske gaped at him in disbelief. A few seconds passed. And then… _"Were you born completely brainless or did you just grow up that way?"_ she exploded, actually shaking from the release of the built-up emnity. The letter burst into flame and fell to the ground, the embers fluttering in the breeze. "I'm already playing courier to the Jarl of Windhelm on matters that are actually of some significance! I will not be involved in your inane, juvenile plots, and—really? Just… _really_?" She was having such a difficult time wrapping her head around the idiocy of the request that she was at a loss for words. "Go. Just. Go."

He tried to look down his nose at her, which failed considering she stood over half a foot taller than him. "Well! No need to be so rude—"

_"Get out of my sight before I bend you over and shove your flute where the sun doesn't shine."_

That certainly got him moving. With an indignant sound caught in his throat, he turned tail and scurried away without looking back.

She exhaled in irritation and started scratching at her armor with renewed vigor to occupy her hands and quell the urge to send a stream of flames after him. _Where is my blasted escort? Every minute spent in this town increases my risk of madness._

Just as she had grown tired of waiting and resolved to head to Whiterun by herself, something caught her attention. A dog that had been walking on the road veered into the space between the inn and the trading goods shop. When a quick glance around showed no one coming, she shifted the weight of her pack and followed it. The dog stopped behind the inn, sensing her, and turned around to pant happily in her direction. She drew closer, identifying it as male when he relieved himself precariously close to the patch of cabbages next to the building. He finished his business and approached her, tail wagging.

Checking to make sure no witnesses were present, she crouched down and ran affectionate fingers over his head and ears. "Oh, you adorable, filthy, smelly mongrel," she gushed, feeling all her anger evaporate and her heart swell for the dog as he licked her face. "You need a long dip in the river and, more importantly, a mint, but I still think you are the most endearing animal alive."

The stifled chuckle behind her froze her blood. "So, you're actually a dog lover, are you?" Faendal asked in amusement.

Rotating her head stiffly toward him, she bit out, "Why do you always pop up at the most inopportune moments?"

He only grinned as she straightened and allowed the dog to go on his way. "Well, hopefully you'll forgive me this time because I'm to escort you to Whiterun."

She felt more relief than she cared to admit at the news. "Ah, I see. Took you long enough. We should get going, then."

"Uh, but before we go…" He fumbled in his pack and took out a piece of paper that Meleske's eyes zeroed in on. "Sven and I have been feuding over this woman, Camilla Valerius. I have written an unintelligent letter on his behalf and was wondering if you could—"

The letter was snatched out of his hand and ripped to shreds before he could finish. "Has this place infected you with its stupidity?" she fairly roared into his astonished face, the remnants of his letter floating down around them. "That idiot bard asked me the same thing. You want my input? Grow a pair and talk to her yourself."

Faendal stared after her, dumbfounded, as she stomped away. "Did you just say 'grow a pair'?"

"Come along, tree-hugger. The day is wasting," she called back.

"Hey, not all Bosmer worship trees, you know."

He hurried to keep up with her long strides and informed her that she was going in the wrong direction. After some arguing over orienteering and land navigation, they settled into a moderate pace on the path to Whiterun. His attempts at conversation were met with terse muttering and exasperated sighs, so he gave up and just tried to enjoy the scenery. Unfortunately, even that was impossible with his traveling companion because when she wasn't grumbling about how much she hated Skyrim, she was tearing off chunks of her armor and tossing them into the surrounding foliage. And despite implying earlier that he was an exception to the wood elf stereotype of protecting nature, he found himself retrieving every single piece of hide almost as quickly as she discarded them.

Meleske, deaf to Faendal's requests to stop littering, stared wistfully in the distance as she ripped off a particularly itchy part of her skirt layer and chucked it over her shoulder. She had never truly appreciated all the splendid clothing given to her every year back home. Her wardrobe consisted of the latest fashions from Cyrodiil, exotic accessories from Elsweyr, fancy heeled shoes from the Summerset Isles, and various trinkets from the other provinces. She even dared say she owned a fur coat imported from Skyrim.

Now that she was adorned in this (possibly flea-infested) getup, she could suddenly see the shimmering patterns cast by her crystal chandelier, smell the vase of fresh lavender sitting on her vanity table, feel the softness of the satin robe hanging by her mirror. Her chest constricted at the prospect of abandoning these things. The concern wasn't for their value, but for the thought behind each gift. One dress she hadn't yet worn had been carefully selected and presented to her the year before by her favorite handmaid Sarial, the one who perished at the end of Ralof's sword. For it to go to waste would be a shame, especially since Meleske was aware of how long Sariel had saved up to purchase it.

"Faendal," she said quietly, the sound of his name surprising the Bosmer still picking up after her. "The carriage at Whiterun. How far west does it go?"

"To Markarth. It's right at the border to High Rock," he replied as he stuffed the last of the hide scraps into his pack.

"Then that will be my next destination."

"Really? I would have thought that you'd be heading south to make your way back to the Summerset Isles."

The smile she sent him was grim and unsettling. "I hail from the Isle of Balfiera, off the coast of Wayrest. Did I fail to mention that I am next in line to rule Direnni Tower?"


	3. Chapter 3

"Wait, slow down! I said I was sorry!" came Faendal's voice from a considerable ways behind her.

Meleske stared straight ahead, lips set in a flat line as she continued taking long strides on purpose along the winding road.

"I admit that my response of, 'What's that?' when you mentioned Direnni Tower was ill-thought out. Nay, I wasn't thinking at all when I blurted it!" Faendal called. "Would you accept my apology? And not lob fireballs at me next time?"

"Do not speak to me, worm, and go scurry back to your insufferable Riverwood. I'm afraid the Nords have already decayed your brain beyond all hope of repair," she answered, not bothering to stop or look back.

"Come now, don't be like that. We were getting along so… er, _splendidly_ ," he declared with clear strain. "Let's make the rest of our travel a good experience."

"An impossible endeavor. I'd much rather you disappear. Or at least stop talking," Meleske snapped.

She disregarded his further appeals to wait for him, storming ahead as the tall buildings of Whiterun came into view in the distance. Dusk had descended and bathed the environment in orange hues, a sight that reminded her of the twilight in Balfiera. She studied her surroundings while walking, taking in the sun dipping behind the mountains and the reflection of its lingering rays in the rushing stream nearby. A frown tugged the corners of her mouth downward. None of it compared to the flourishing scenery around Direnni Tower, but even she could admit it held a certain quality that made this land a little less reprehensible.

Meleske kept on the path and caught up to a small troop of Imperial soldiers escorting a bound Stormcloak prisoner. Still harboring a strong grudge against both factions, she took the time to berate all of them for their severe lack of etiquette and decency, even flicking her hair over her shoulder as she ignored their resulting outrage and marched off. Behind her, she heard Faendal talking the soldiers down from drawing their swords once he finally caught up.

Farther along, the pair reached Honningbrew Meadery, and Meleske scoffed at a passing Whiterun guard's assertion that it produced the finest mead in all of Skyrim.

"'Fine' or not, mead is such a caveman's beverage," she remarked, nose in the air. "Only Firebrand Wine or Colovian Brandy are acceptable forms of drink."

Faendal sighed next to her as they proceeded past the quaint buildings. "You know, Meleske, it's better for the soul to not be so haughty all the time."

"Did I hear speech from something that shouldn't be here?"

He demonstrated an impressive amount of patience by merely shaking his head.

Up ahead near a wheat farm, a battle raged between a trio of humans and an incensed giant. Meleske stopped in her tracks when the surface beneath her feet quaked from the gargantuan creature's club striking the ground. She scowled at Faendal's suggestion that they lend their assistance, and instead, began skirting her way around the fight in an effort to sneak by without detection. In the event that the giant squashed the three lunatics nipping at its knees, she intended to be long gone.

Suddenly, a thunderous boom accompanied the powerful tremor of the giant's collapse, which knocked her off balance. Meleske yelped as she toppled to the side in yet another mortifying display of gracelessness, cursing half the Nines on her way down. Faendal fared better beside her and reached over to help her up as soon as the world ceased shaking. Snarling another oath under her breath, she brushed herself off and resumed her trek, daring one more thing to impede her progress.

"You there!" that exact impediment hollered.

Meleske clenched her teeth and attempted to snub the woman who came jogging up to her.

"Well, that's taken care of. No thanks to you."

"Be gone, Brunhilda, for I have my own business to attend to," Meleske barked, still striding forward.

"I am Aela the Huntress. And a true warrior would have relished the opportunity to take on a giant."

"I couldn't care less about either of those sentences." Meleske glanced at her and grimaced. "Also, you appear to have streaks of cow manure over your face."

Aela halted at the observation, growling, "This is war paint!"

"Whatever you heathens call it, it's ghastly," Meleske declared over her shoulder. She caught something about a "Whitemane" and "Companions" before tuning out the adamant woman's words of challenge and commenting to Faendal about how noisy the area had become.

Once enough distance separated her from the ongoing spiel about "Shield-Brothers" and all that other nonsense, Meleske rubbed her forehead in weariness. She wondered what crime she'd committed to earn all this karma, for the gods certainly weren't holding back on heaving disaster and disruption across her path at every opportunity. Only the stables ahead offered her any encouragement, though something yanked her backwards by the collar when she made a beeline for the carriage.

"Hold on there. You're supposed to report what happened at Helgen to the Jarl, remember?" Faendal reminded her helpfully as he toted her protesting form past the bemused carriage driver.

"Unhand me!" Meleske ordered, struggling and swatting at him in a most unladylike fashion. "I have half a mind to set that ridiculous white ponytail ablaze!"

"As it so happens, you're not the first woman to threaten me with that," Faendal chuckled, still dragging her along.

His incessant good nature both irked and astounded her. Accustomed to earning contempt and antipathy everywhere she went due to her high maintenance attitude—which she carried with delusional, narcissistic pride—she found Faendal's tolerance a little disorienting. His laidback demeanor was foreign and odd, yet not altogether unwelcome. After a while, she huffed and settled down enough for him to let her walk on her own, deciding against scorching one of the rare individuals able to put up with her antics.

They traveled toward the city gates just as the sun disappeared below the horizon. The unexpected stench of horses wafted over to assault her nostrils as they ambled by the full stables, and she covered her nose with both hands while glaring at the stable master, whose wry expression only fueled her ire. Faendal led the way through the overpass and up the sloped route as Meleske fanned herself from both the pervasive smell and the exertion.

"Must they make the incline of this road so steep?" she complained, already sweating in her armor. "It has me gasping for breath when I would rather not inhale the offensive odor of these equines."

"You'll be okay. Just a little farther," Faendal told her.

Fiery golden eyes narrowed at his back, and Meleske briefly entertained the idea of whirling around and sprinting for the carriage while he wasn't looking. However, he either read her mind or learned of her intentions from some traitorous Divine whispering in his ear because he turned at that moment to send her a meaningful stare. Her gaze went skyward as she lamented the bothersome tribulations cast upon her life.

_Curses. Foiled._

Glowering back at him, she threw her hands up in resignation and followed him across the short drawbridge toward the two guards standing watch at the gates.

"Halt! City's closed with the dragons about. Official business only," one proclaimed.

"Oh, get out of the way, you babbling buffoon," Meleske fumed, prepared to plow on through. "I've had it up to here with you aggravating lot—"

"Uh, what she means is, she has news of the dragon attack and would like to speak to the Jarl," Faendal interjected hastily.

The guard grumbled something about upstart elves, but granted them access at Faendal's diplomatic persuasion. Meleske stomped up to the vast doors and pushed at the heavy wooden structures with difficulty, eventually snapping at her companion to open them for her when they refused to budge. Once she slipped inside, a jaded sigh escaped her as she paused to survey the busy district in distaste.

"Before you start criticizing," Faendal quipped right as she opened her mouth to do just that, "why not try and find something positive about what you see? Whiterun is known as the crown jewel of Skyrim, after all. Come on, Dragonsreach is this way."

She wrinkled her nose and trailed after him as they maneuvered around the Whiterun citizens peering at her in curiosity. "Positive? The only thing positive about this hovel is that at least there are no chickens or bovines running amok like in Riverwood—"

A group of clucking hens scurried in front of them in that instant, followed by a cow making its lazy way back to its pen near one of the houses to the left.

"…I stand corrected," Meleske said dryly. "Crown jewel, indeed, with poultry strutting about freely instead of adorning a dining table as the supper entrée…"

Faendal gave her an amused look and continued up the steps toward the high palace. She plodded along without enthusiasm, studying the exterior of Dragonsreach to avoid eye contact with the lesser beings around her. The architecture was far too crude for her tastes, but she did take note of the sturdy construction of the arches and walls. A few more guards made comments about the dragon's presence at Helgen when she and Faendal neared the entrance, prompting her to verbalize her scornful surprise that news traveled so quickly in such a primitive province like Skyrim.

Once Faendal managed to convince the guards to not smack her with a bounty for her belligerent annotations, he ushered her inside the keep, much to her displeasure. The Great Hall bathed them in immediate warmth from the hearty blaze roaring at its center, and she swept a wary glance around the space, realizing belatedly that this marked her first official meeting with a dignitary outside Direnni Tower. She hesitated even as Faendal tried to prod her forward, wondering how to present herself.

 _One wrong move, and I could ruin the Dirennis' political standing across provinces in the long-run,_ she thought, taking stiff steps toward the man seated on the throne. _But at this point, should that even matter to me?_

She stopped short when a female Dunmer garbed in tan armor advanced on her, sword drawn.

"And who are you to waltz in here unannounced, high elf?" demanded the gray-skinned woman.

Meleske made a split-second decision, succumbing to trained instinct. "I humbly request an audience with the Jarl, for I have crucial firsthand information about the dragon attack."

She felt Faendal's questioning gaze on her at the sound of her altered speech, but she paid him no heed as the Dunmer backed off and instructed her to approach "Jarl Balgruuf the Greater." The Whiterun ruler looked quite comfy slouched in his ornate chair, and she plastered on a neutral expression when he beckoned her over. If anything, her impartial countenance was better than her customary sneering.

"So. You were at Helgen? You saw this dragon with your own eyes?" Balgruuf asked.

_No, I saw it with a pair of eyeballs I happened to be borrowing while sightseeing in the middle of an Imperial execution—yes, I saw it with my own eyes, you tiara-wearing fool._

"That is correct. The dragon destroyed the town once called Helgen, and it's possible Riverwood may be next," she replied out loud.

Balgruuf's blond brow furrowed as he exchanged a few heated words with his steward about assigning a security detail out there. After a few minutes, the Jarl won the argument and ordered the Dunmer housecarl, Irileth, to send a detachment of troops to Riverwood. Tension thickened the air in the Great Hall as Proventus stalked off in quiet defeat, and Meleske had to bite her tongue to refrain from comparing Nord politics to the interpersonal communication between monkeys.

While Balgruuf issued a few more instructions to Irileth, Meleske maintained her proper posture, wishing her parents knew what a favor she was doing them. Behaving in a professional manner was not in her usual repertoire of social interactions, but her aversion to her family didn't extend so far that she sought to sabotage their relations with outside groups. She would play the fair aristocrat role in this dusty human Hold while wearing this ugly man-made armor.

All for the people who had groomed, sold, and sealed her future.

Never say the Direnni heir lived and died a selfish wretch. At least, not completely.

"You have done well seeking me out on your own initiative. I want you to know you did Whiterun a great service, and I am grateful," Balgruuf stated, once again addressing her. "Tell me, what is your name and from where do you hail?"

"Meleske Direnni. I come from the Isle of Balfiera," she responded, giving him the truth without thinking.

"Direnni? I understand the Direnni bloodline runs in the rulers of Solitude," the Jarl mused as she shifted in discomfort. "But what brings a Direnni woman from Balfiera all the way to Skyrim?"

 _By the Nines, but you humans are nosy._ "I was… to act as an ambassador of sorts."

"Was? I assume the incident at Helgen proved to be a setback?"

"That is an understatement," Meleske seethed before she could catch herself. Clearing her throat, she went on, "So if you need nothing else of me, I must take a carriage west and begin my journey home."

"Actually, if you have the time, there is another thing you can do for me," Balgruuf declared, rising.

Meleske's stomach plummeted. "I… ah, I'm afraid I should be going—"

"Come with me. I want to introduce you to my court wizard, Farengar. He has been looking into these dragon rumors and may have need of your services." Balgruuf swept past her and headed for an adjoining room beyond the dining tables.

Faendal strode to her side, grinning. "Wow, you've definitely made a good impression on the Jarl. I had no idea you could switch demeanors like that," he whispered, quite fascinated.

Meleske grabbed a fistful of his tunic and tugged him toward her when all witnesses left the Great Hall. "Yes, and what a mistake I've made. Now that I've blurted my real identity, I can't simply tell him to plant his lips on my arse and scamper off," she hissed. "Help me fix this."

"Oh, um…"

"Also, how dare that yellow-haired ingrate presume I'd be interested in lending my further assistance to this miserable fleapit—"

"All right, all right. Let's just see what this Farengar has to say, hmm?" Faendal suggested. He took her by the elbow and steered her toward the court wizard's quarters.

Once they entered what looked like an arcane laboratory, Balgruuf finished speaking with a man dressed in standard mage robes and introduced her.

"Fill Lady Direnni in on the details. She may be able to help you with your dragon project," the Jarl declared.

Some of Meleske's anger temporarily evaporated at the title as flattery took precedence over emotion. "Oh, I actually am not called 'Lady Direnni,' but I appreciate such a compliment—"

"Ah, yes. I could use someone to fetch something for me," Farengar remarked, peering at Meleske like one would examine livestock.

Her tone went flat. "Excuse me?" _Fetch?_

"Succeed in this, and I will see to it that you are suitably rewarded," Balgruuf told her before heading back toward the exit. "Farengar will brief you on this task."

The court wizard scratched at his hairline beneath his hood once the Jarl left. "Well, 'fetch' as in delving into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there."

A few beats of stunned silence went by. Meleske stared back and forth between Farengar and Faendal, attempting to gauge their reactions and determine whether or not this was a jest. When neither man's expression changed, she released a sharp, humorless laugh, too incredulous and livid to keep up appearances.

"And what makes you think I, a prominent member of an esteemed bloodline, will agree to such an idiotic and suicidal quest?" she snarled, small bursts of flames igniting at her fingertips.

Farengar's sight flickered down to them before returning to her face. "So you're a mage, then. Destruction school, too. That will make your job easier. This stone tablet I've tracked down to Bleak Falls Barrow is a Dragonstone, which contains a map of dragon burial sites. If you retrieve it and bring it to me, we will be able to look into the dragon sightings more thoroughly."

Meleske took an ominous step toward him. "Again, why should I concern myself with the troubles of Skyrim when they have nothing to do with me? You're all lucky I even came here to report what I saw at Helgen. Jarl Balgruuf was mistaken when he got the impression I was willing to help more than I already have."

Unfazed, Farengar crossed his arms. "How long do you think it will be before the dragons cross into the other provinces? This problem is not only Skyrim's, but everyone's as well. And since you're already here, why not aid us? Yes, you could turn around and walk away right now, but weeks or months down the road when those creatures are razing your homeland, how much will you regret letting this chance slip between your fingers?"

Her jaw tightened as the answer flashed across her head. _I could watch Direnni Tower crumble to the ground, the Isle of Balfiera get swallowed by the sea… and I would feel nothing._

Still, an innate part of her understood his point, and as much as she wished her branch of the Direnni Clan didn't exist, the duty to protect her family had long been instilled within her.

"Fine," she relented. "I will embark on this senseless task for you. And if I die, I will return as a thrall to haunt your waking hours."

"Fair enough," Farengar replied with smug satisfaction. "Though if you survive, I'd suggest that you apply for the College of Winterhold. I can tell from here that your spells need work."

Meleske's temper skyrocketed. "Why you simpering, ill-mannered—"

"Well, I wish you the best of luck, Meleske," Faendal piped up, inching toward the doorway.

She whirled on him, her lip curling. "And where do you think you're going?"

"Ah, I'm just doing what you told me to do earlier and disappearing—"

"Oh no, you don't." She closed the distance between them and seized his tunic again. Leaning in, her voice dropped to a threatening pitch. "You are coming with me."

x-x-x-x-x

"Should we wait any longer, Legate?" Maramal asked.

Fasendil frowned as he stood at the entrance to the Temple of Mara, seeing no sign of the one he'd been waiting for. The stall merchants had already begun packing their wares in the market as evening encroached upon Riften. He donned his Imperial helmet and turned back toward the priest at the altar.

"No. She's not coming. Just cancel the ceremony." The disappointment laced his words, stemming from more than one reason.

Maramal sighed and nodded for Dinya to clear off the decorations. "You have my condolences. Wherever your bride is, I pray to Mara that she is safe."

The Altmer Legionnaire sent him a curt nod and marched down the front steps of the temple. Her failure to show up wasn't that shocking, but as the commander of the Rift Imperial Camp, he couldn't afford to take leave two days in a row and waste his time like this. Furthermore, the absence of his betrothed posed more trouble than just a breached matrimonial contract.

He spotted an idle courier loitering at the main gates and flagged him down. "You. I need a message delivered."

"Of course, sir," the courier responded at once, hurrying over. "To whom?"

"The Direnni family on the Isle of Balfiera," Fasendil stated, glaring sternly when the other man blanched. "Take a horse and a boat. I don't care how you do it. But they need to know that Meleske Direnni is missing."


End file.
